Believing in People
by shaunamac
Summary: Hello, all! With Endgame looming, I need levity, and it's in the form of 100 word prompts I found! Basically, this is a collection of 100 one-shots. I plan to write each one based around a dynamic, whether it's romantic, platonic, familial, canon, etc. I hope you enjoy, reviews are always more than welcome, and good luck these coming weeks! Requests accepted, rated M to be safe!
1. Chapter 1

Blue.

Breathless, beautiful, swallowing blue.

He feels it slide around him, star-splashed skies turning to the softest of silks that gently guide him from this place. For a moment, time melts away. All else ceases to exist. For a heartbeat, a fragment of this tortured life, he is at peace, resting in warm, luxurious darkness, bruised skin soothed, cuts and grazes and scars rendered little more than a faded memory with the sweet embrace of this royal blue.

There, just as he's about to close his eyes, to finally embrace this moment, a radiant sunset bathes him with warmth and light from the center of this wonderful haven. He doesn't rush towards it. In fact, the moment he sees it, a gentle swirl of satin whirls around him, and he slips out in a whisper of ease, stepping lightly forth into the fond embrace of the sun.

Tender hands, softer and more tender than any amount of silk or satin in the world, rest on his shoulders, then glide up to his neck, drawing the softest of sighs from him as his eyes close, and he tips his head forward, to balance against the forehead of this glorious, eternal sun. She smiles. He opens his eyes again, and her face beams out to him, a beacon in the darkness.

"Hey, Miss Potts..." His quick charm is gone. The stars and moons and suns have stolen it from him. All that remains is a vulnerability that she's seen before, and that he knows will remain between them until everything else is gone. His voice is hoarse. Thirst has found him, even here. For a moment, he's seized by panic, by a sudden and sharp dread that he can't be here, not really, not-

"Mr. Stark." A lovely, known voice replies, and it trickles away. It chases the thirst away, hunts it away with a powerful blast, and shields them from it. Virginia Potts. Pepper Potts-Stark. Who's always ready, who's always there, who always, ALWAYS, holds him close, knows what to do, brings him to safety, guides him home. Even this dream of her voice is enough to keep him sane.

"I like your dress. Very pretty. Very blue." Did he even say this before? He can't remember. All he can know is how incredible she was. And how her smile, this smile, the smile that warms his trembling bones, was all that he really kept from those darker days.

"Yes, well, you bought it. It's your birthday present to me."

"Oh?"

"Thank you."

"I have excellent taste."

"In dresses." She's smiling again, and oh, how his heart damn near stops. Something pulls him away. For a moment, that god-awful panic is back again, seizing him, freezing him in place, as a hush falls, and something covers his eyes. He's spinning, though only a few times, and not terribly fast. But he spins. He spins, and for a heartbeat, he's convinced that this is the dream again. Yinsen. Thanos. Obadiah. Harley. People from both ends of the spectrum. Oh, God, stop spinning. Stand still. Don't move, don't spin, just stop-

He's suddenly pitched forward. This time, rather than an ocean of blue silk, a cheerful red door pushes open with his arrival, and a bell rings to declare his presence.

There she is again. This memory is recent. Powder blue slacks, a white blouse that's uncharacteristically crumpled, and red eyes that make him stiffen again. He's no longer standing, but sitting in the diner booth with her. The table is in the way, but he's entirely prepared to destroy it if it means holding her faster. But then she releases a soft, hoarse, finishing laugh, and his muscles relax instantly.

"We can't embarrass Happy like that, jerk." She has her hair loose around her shoulders, hairband discarded on the tabletop next to a salad that she seems to enjoy nicely enough. He isn't sure. All he can see is how her eyes crinkle at the corners when she's laughing, how her cheeks turn rosy with the chuckles that spill into the room, almost drowning out the music in the small diner. "Let Peter attend if he wants to, and if Happy wants to invite May as a plus one, let him!"

"Problem solved. You're a woman of endless solutions, Miss Potts."

"You better not be flirting with me, I'm engaged."

"Oh? To who? Is he devilishly handsome?" There it is again, that melodic giggle as she lowers a forkful of romaine. "Attractively intelligent?" The fork descends to the bowl, and she rolls her eyes in an attempt to stop laughing. "An excellent dancer? I bet he's a great dancer."

"Actually, not so much."

"You know something, I bet I'm a better dancer than him. In fact..." He's on his feet, jogging over to the jukebox, and slotting in a quarter. His choice made, he steps back, and extends a hand to her as the opening bars begin to play.

He isn't sure how long they dance for. She's light on her feet, always is, unlike he who so often feels as though the iron boots are on. They take turns spinning one another around the diner, between empty booths, much to the great joy of the waitress, whose only action is to get up and pull the blinds when a few aspiring paparazzi arrive to take some winning shots. Pepper's head rests against his shoulder during the slow parts, and her hands pull him into a series of jaunty moves during the fast parts. But before the song even has a chance to finish...

"No..." His protests go unheeded, and he's pulled back, light and tender hands slipping from his frantic grasp, sunlight fading, thrust into a white snowstorm before he even gets a chance to say goodbye.

It isn't cold. In fact, it's more like he's floating in an endless space while snow-white confetti drifts around him. Every so often, he catches sight of a detail. His senses rise. Snatches of pure lace, the scent of that perfume she only uses for date nights, the taste of champagne, crisp linen shirt that feels impossibly clean on his skin, the sound of that song she insisted to be used instead of the wedding march. He's about to resign himself to this pretty world of muted elegance, when suddenly he lurches forward again.

This time, it isn't a memory.

It's a dream. Or a nightmare, depending on where you stand. He stands in the position of the latter.

He's at the bottom of the aisle. Ahead, Pepper awaits, wearing an elegant white dress. Strapless. He remembers hearing her talk excitedly about how much she loves grecian goddess style dresses, and this seems to be very much the kind of thing a goddess might wear. But of course it is. Pepper's wearing it, isn't she?

Happy stands with her, dressed in a pale yellow suit, no tie, snowy white shirt instead. Their backs are turned to him. His foot lifts, and Tony catches a flash of crimson from the sole of his show, and a small chuckle warms his throat and heart all at once. But something isn't right-

The music is playing. Nobody moves. Their heads face stubbornly in the opposite direction. Tony takes a small step forward. Ahead, he can see them in the front row. Red cape. Neatly combed blond hair. Deep wine red curls loose and neat above slender shoulders. A head of messed brown hair, suit jacket adjusted anxiously, a fidgeting hand lifted again to ruin his hair some more. On the other side, a man, woman, baby, two kids. Behind them, a young woman with long brown hair. Or is it red?

Nobody moves. Nobody speaks a single word. Vision is officiating. Somehow. Wait, why is he officiating-

_"Mr. Stark?"_

A hand catches his arm, and tugs. That's the only reason he knows he's been touched. Because when he looks down, Tony notices his suit is not of linen and silk, or of soft cotton and brushed wool. Instead, he wears iron. Rusted, dented, scratched, scorched iron.

He turns his head. The wedding vanishes. Pepper vanishes. All he sees is Peter, stumbling, confused and afraid towards the only solution his young mind can consider at the moment.

_"Mr. Stark, I don't...-"_

"Tony?" He turns again. The wedding is back. People are dancing, silent, heads turns away, Pepper in his arms as they slowly waltz around the room. "Where did you go, huh?"

"I didn't go..." He blinks once, twice. Turns his head again, but Pepper gently guides him back to look at her. "We're married?"

"We're married." She agrees with a smile. No warmth. This feels sticky. Like a honey trap. He stares at her, and her smile remains in place, even growing more to assure him. "Hello, husband."

"But... But the kid-"

_"Mr. Stark, I don't feel-"_

"Once again, not expecting. But that can change... Right?" Her fingertips run along the back of his neck, dancing up and burying into his hair. He closes his eyes, then opens them and lifts his head in confusion. "Baby?"

"This isn't real. This isn't right, Pep, I... Where's the kid? Where's Peter?"

"Tony-"

_"Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good?"_ He turns. White vanishes, red returns. Peter is staring at his arms, then looking up, stumbling forward. "I don't... I don't know-"

"Tony?"

**Focus.** He opens his arms, and manages to catch Peter just before he collapses to face his death alone. "It's okay."

_No._

"You're good, it's good."

_It is not good._

"I don't know what's happening to me-"

_Neither does he._

"I don't want to go! Please, please..." Peter's on the ground, in his arms, and there's absolutely jackshit he can do about it. Tony can only move his hand up, and feel the final heartbeats before he fades away. "I'm sorry..."

"Tony!" Happy's behind him, but before he can turn around, Pepper cups his face in her hands, and guides him back around. He tries to look down, but instead, she keeps him upright, staring right at him, into the very depths of his soul.

_"Tony."_

He doesn't jerk forward when he wakens. His heart doesn't race. In that utterance of his name, that quiet, firm, undeniable proclamation, she erases any panic or uncertainty that might follow this waking moment. Instead, Tony opens his eyes with a short intake of breath, and follows his line of sight down to the broken helmet before him. It calls to him. He sits forward, all else forgotten, and his hand, trembling with a cocktail of hunger, exhaustion, thirst, desperation, lowers to switch the camera on.

"Is this thing on? Okay..." He sits up. No smiles. No reassuring nods. This isn't a promise of return. He won't do that to her.

"Hey, Miss Potts."


	2. AUTHOR'S NOTE!

Below is a list of the prompts that I'll be basing this work on. All of the prompts that are in** BOLD **are prompts that are already thought of and have a plot, but the others are entirely fair game! If you feel so inclined, please feel free to hop into the comments and specify a ship, the ship style, and the prompt you'd like to be attached to them!

**EXAMPLE: **Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton, romantic, Camouflage.

Don't be shy! The more the merrier!

* * *

**DANCE** | **TREAT** | SAND | SALT | CLIP

BREAD| FISH | **RACE** | POOR | RICH

**NAME** | VAULT | CRIME | PHOTOGRAPH | QUILL

PUNCH | X-RAY | RAILROAD | WRECK | COIN

ICE | TRUCK | ANTIQUE | HOUSE | SHATTER

FLOWER | STAR | GOAL | SCHOOL | RELIGION

FIRST CRUSH | LIGHT | KNIGHT | TRAIN | CONTEST

MONEY | CANDY | OIL | FLIGHT | FAKE

APPLE | BOOT | PEST | BURN | JAIL

GROVE | AUTUMN | COLD | DICE | SPLINTER

CRICKET | TURF | BUBBLE | SURPRISE | GIFT

DULL | HEART | PATTERN | GUM | PRINT

BOAT | RIPE | KISS | PIPE | POLLUTION

SECRET | LIE | CAMOUFLAGE | RAIN | SAFARI

BORDER | WAR | NATURE | DISASTER | ANCIENT

RESCUE | INK | SLEEP | COLLIDE | JOKE

CARD | GAMBLE | RISK | DISC | SURGERY

BONE | DEATH | FIREFLIES | PIANO | CHEST

LUCK | WARM | TACK | TRICK | ZEBRA

RAPIDS | DANGER | ELECTRICAL | GUESS | CHALLENGE


	3. Chapter 2: Treat - Stucky

The year is 1939. To make matters considerably worse, it's the middle of one of the hottest summers young Steve can remember. July 4th rolls around, and as the seconds trickle away to reveal it's start, Steve drags himself with determined, yet frail, perseverence out of a heavy dose of the flu.

He wouldn't mind, of course, only that he and Bucky have arrangements made. Traditions are rare to come by when you can so rarely afford many of them, but Independence Day is something that he's glad to save up cash for the 364 days that lie outside of it. Fireworks, funfairs, walking along the pier, eating fresh hot dogs, popcorn that burns your tongue if you don't handle it properly, bottles of Coca-Cola that were so cold, it blinded your senses to the sweltering New York heat.

It's a tradition.

It's THEIR tradition.

And yet here he is, clinging to a bowl of broth (far nicer than the weak stuff he makes; this came from the diner down the street, a friendly girl "from back home", as Ma called it, or used to) and swallowing it bleakly. Damn immune system. He couldn't have been sick during the winter, or even the spring, oh no. Hell, he'd even be okay with the very early weeks of summer! But no. Fate saw his steady and hard-fought lack of ailments, and waited patiently, like a snake watching it's prey, and struck when he least expected nor NEEDED it.

He sticks the spoon back into the bowl, poking a piece of potato wearily. The clock bids a detached farewell to another minute. Twenty minutes until three. Twenty minutes - no, it's fifteen, really, even if he hates to acknowledge Bucky's habit for showing up early - until he has to make that apology.

Sorry, Buck. Not everyone can be blessed with a semi-decent immune system. Maybe next year-

_**KNOCK-KNOCK!**_

Damnit. He looks up from his soup, a hoarse sigh as he examines the clock. Nope. Bucky's extra early today. He must've heard about him being sick. The spoon clatters in the bowl, and he sets it aside, thin arms struggling to push himself upright. Cold thumb fumbles with the latch, before finally it stops shaking enough for him to give the door a tug, and for Bucky to slot a hand between the door and the frame.

"Up and at 'em, Stevie!" He pushes the door back, with a grin brighter and warmer than the sun that bakes the streets outside.

"Where's Jeanie?" He looks over his shoulder for the redhead, but Bucky shakes his head with a casual flick of his hand.

"Jeanie's moved on to Florida, bud. Just you and me today." He isn't making eye contact, though. Granted, Steve's in no position to comment on that; he's admiring the new shirt Bucky's wearing, a light blue cotton thing, sleeves rolled up, buttons open to accommodate the unexpected rise in temperatures. A thin sheen of sweat coats his face, dark patches on his collar and a dishevelled look to his hair as he looks around the room. Eventually, his hands lift, and Steve watches with a faintly exasperated sigh as Bucky's hands rest on his hips, just above the dark fabric of his trousers, and his dark brows furrow with scrutiny.

"What's with the soup, Steve?"

"I..." Two options. Tell him the truth and start an age-old conversation about how Bucky doesn't need to babysit him, but seems to be trapped doing just that, or lie, and have to set off a string of lies to account for it.

"I was hungry."

"So you had a bowl of hot soup."

"Mhm."

"Steve, it's hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk out there."

"It is?"

"Can you maybe, I don't know, indulge a guy in more than two word answers, please?" He runs his tongue across his upper lip, releasing one hand to run back through his hair again, shaking it out to catch a breeze against his scalp.

"What do you want me to say-?" Fuck. There it is. Just at the bridge between the two last words, his throat catches, and a tumble of air against his recovering lungs causes a spluttering cough for about thirty seconds. He's dizzy when it reaches twenty seconds, and it's only by Bucky's careful intervention, his hands moving to Steve's waist and guiding him gently into the sofa, that he's able to avoid tripping over his own feet. A few seconds later, he's stopped coughing, raising a hand to rest atop Bucky's gratefully.

"Jesus, Steve, what does it take to call me these days?"

"Double pneumonia?" He wheezes, though his hand squeezes Bucky's stronger fingers, and after a moment, he pushes himself back to lean against the worn cushions. "Sorry, Buck."

"C'mon, you know you don't need to apologise to me." He pushes himself up to sit next to Steve, only pausing to nudge the bowl away before sinking back into the cushions.

"I was really lookin' forward to it, this year."

"Ah, knock it off. We can always buy hot dogs and eat 'em here, you know that."

"And the fireworks? The pier? The fair?"

"Steve, it ain't like this is the only day of the year where we'll ever see the pier or the fair. And as for fireworks, you got a window, don'tcha?"

"That's not the same." He pointed out. Bucky prepares to roll his eyes, but Steve interrupts with a faint nudge of his elbow into his side. "It's not. Nothing like the real deal."

"You're right. It'll be better." A strong hand moves out and rests with the gentleness and lightness of a feather over his knee. "No crowds, no dames tryin' to reach all the bases with their boys. I can go grab hot dogs from Stanley's, you know they're my favorite anyway!"

"Buck..." He's touched that he's going to this level. Truly and utterly, he is. But further arguments fade as he looks back at him, and dark, warm, understanding eyes meet his. The thin shiver that seems to coat him constantly never really exists when Bucky is looking at him like this. "C'mon, you don't have to. Why don't you go on your own, bring a nice girl with you?"

"You sound like my mom, Rogers." He grins, shaking his head with a sigh that still smells of mint and coffee. These little details, these small things that no amount of sketches can truly accomplish. The way his hands move when he's trying to convince someone to do something. How he shifts on the balls of his feet whenever he's excited about something. That bright light that sparks in him (him, not his eyes, but HIM) when he's talking about something that genuinely interests him. The way he somehow seems to know exactly what Steve is thinking, all the time-

"I hate crowds, and so do you. Besides. Hot dogs, cold lemonade, you and your sketchbook. Sounds pretty damn terrific to me, Stevie."

"...You don't have-"

"I want to, moron. How's that? C'mon... You go get yourself cleaned up, I'll go grab some hot dogs. I'll even go throw a few winks at Celia downstairs, see if she doesn't mind lending some ice. Just 'cause you're sick doesn't mean you can't have a few treats on Independence Day, you know."

"Celia's going to expect a ring at this rate."

"Sure. I'll get her a whole back of 'em. Onion rings are only a buck fifty!" Bucky reaches up, ruffles a hand through Steve's mop of sweaty locks, and lets it linger for a moment before jogging out the door again. "Sit tight, Stevie!"

Later that night, as they sat by the open window, full and cool and happy, the fireworks lit up the sky in glorious bursts of scarlet, sapphire and gold. Steve found himself nodding off, eventually leaning over and sinking into Bucky's side, head nestled against his shoulder. Once, he used to wonder if Bucky would shove him off, even good-naturedly. But after the first few times of no reaction, a pattern began to form, and one that continues even now. Bucky's arm moves from the back of the sofa, and curls protectively around him, cradling him as sleep begins to melt the corners of his senses.

The last thing he remembers before falling asleep is Bucky tipping back the last of his lemonade, and gently nudging the curtains closed with his foot. His arm shifts, and his other arm tucks beneath Steve's legs, before he's carried into bed, and Bucky tugs out the creaky camp bed next to him. They fall asleep with Bucky holding his hand. In the morning, they'll tell each other it was to make sure Steve was still breathing during the night. The truth will remain a mutually known secret between them.

Steve doesn't know when it will ever come out.


End file.
